Of Doctors and Soldiers
by GeekyGingerGirl
Summary: At Danny Pink's funeral, Clara Oswald is approached by John Watson, Danny's old friend from the war. But John's friend Sherlock is there to talk to Clara as well- for a very different reason. Eventual Sherlock/Clara I think...well, probably, looking at what I've written so far. I never really know what I'll write before it's on paper, or in this case, on screen.
1. Chapter 1

Her dress was black; all of their clothes were. Except for one of the students' siblings sitting in the back row—she wore jeans and a pink frilly t-shirt. Others shot the girl tearful glares, but Clara could have applauded her. Danny hated it when she wore black, wanted more color and brightness. He'd seen enough darkness in his time in the war.

Speaking of the war, Clara turned her attention back to the service. One of Danny's old friends (James or John or something) from the army was speaking, repeating essentially what everyone else had. "Danny Pink was a good man, a brave one. He fought hard for what was right, yet remained gentle and kind to all of us. He could have died in battle, could have gotten glory and honour and what he was owed. But this is what we have; this is the unjustness of human life. One moment he was here, giving and teaching and loving," the man (_John,_ she thought, _yes, that was it_) glanced at Clara with a sad smile on his lips. "The next he was gone, and we are all left here to remember him and wonder how it could have happened so fast. But Danny wasn't the type to moan and gripe and let himself fall into grief. He was a man who appreciated a good story. So here we are- all the people he helped throughout his life- here to tell the best story. The story of his life."

Clara was surprised at the tears that filled her eyes as John ended his speech. It was the same sentimental shit the others spouted, yet it was more real and harsh and exactly what Clara needed. She realised she had forgotten to bring tissues. How stupid was she? Forgetting tissues for a funeral. She cursed herself as she cried harder in silence. Her grandmother sat next to her, clutching her granddaughter's wrist with a thin hand. "That's it, love. You ought to cry now," the old woman whispered.

Clara was oblivious to the rest of the service; more of Danny's friends stood and shared memories, a few funny, most sweet but silly. She had been encouraged to speak, but declined firmly. What she had to say, she would say to Danny and him alone. She had known them better than most of the people crowded into the church. They didn't need to hear the truth.

The young woman stood, and hurried out of the church. There was to be no burial; Danny had been cremated, a fact which Clara felt so, horribly sick about. That was perhaps the worst of it—the awful truth she bore and couldn't share. It also gave her a sickening sense of superiority, made her feel that her suffering was more righteous than all of these people with their wet handkerchiefs and anecdotes. The man whose speech had finally moved Clara herself to tears, John, stopped her before she could exit. "Miss Oswald- may I call you Clara?"

"Ah, yes," she replied hesitantly. She had wanted to leave early to avoid all of this- the 'sincere apologies' and 'poor dears' and 'Danny really liked yous'.

"I wanted to tell you that, well, you shouldn't have to suffer alone. They all might claim they're here for you, but both of us can see they're lying. I helped train Danny, I knew him the longest out of most of these people, I like to think I knew him best…I'm sorry, I know I sound exactly like them. But that's what I'm trying to say. I'm not, and I know you aren't either, and I thought you should know that I know you-"

"Really articulate John, nicely done," said the man next to him, thin and angular with a thick crop of dark curls and sharp eyes. "Miss Oswald, nice to meet you. This is John, and he's really not quite so daft as he seems. Very nearly though."

Something about the man reminded Clara of the Doctor. "And who are you?" she asked, perhaps a bit rudely, but the man wasn't being very polite either.

"Sherlock Holmes. I'm sure you've heard of me."

"No, sorry. I don't really stay up to date with all the London gossip and everything," Clara sighed. She wanted to go. Now.

"You wouldn't have heard of me in some _gossip tabloid_," he said with contempt.

"Actually, you might have," John smirked, "Thanks to Janine."

Sherlock ignored his friend. "I'm a detective. I take care of all the high-profile murder cases, unsolved mysteries, enemies to the government, et cetera et cetera."

Clara experienced a brief surge of hope, quickly followed by a plunging back into gloominess at the words, _"murder cases."_ But Danny hadn't been murdered, and this man wasn't offering to help her. Sherlock Holmes was showing off, just like every other bloody person in this godforsaken world. "Good for you, mate," she said, turning away.

"Clara, wait-"John said. "Sherlock wanted to meet you as well, that's the only reason he'd come to a funeral with me. I honestly don't know why, but maybe he can explain."

"Er, yes. Miss Oswald, do you….know the Doctor?


	2. Chapter 2

"E- excuse me?" Clara asked, voice shaking.

"That's a yes, then. I need to talk to you about him," Sherlock said firmly.

"I- what? How did you know? I-"

"You're not that hard to read, Clara Oswald," he said, although something in his eyes told Clara he wasn't being perfectly honest. "Control freak, hiding a whole wash of anxiety beneath a busy, bubbly personality. Teacher, a job you love, but it's quite hard on you. Obviously, grieving Danny Pink (in stage 3- anger, I believe), but although this appears to be the second, no, third person close to you you've lost, you're not a stranger to death. Not a soldier or a medial worker, so…what, then? A _time- and space-traveler_?"

John opened his mouth, looking, mystified, between the woman and the detective.

Clara responded very firmly. "Look, Mr. Holmes, whoever you are, you're not so terribly hard to read yourself. You as well are hiding a lifetime of anxiety and loneliness beneath this stuck-up, arrogant arsehole façade. You think you're so bloody smart, and I'm not saying you aren't, but you live in fear of someone one-upping you. Which people have, on multiple occasions. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've just sat through my boyfriend's horrible funeral and I'd like to go home and grieve. Alone." She pivoted on her heel and marched away from the church, aware of multiple pairs of eyes on her back. So her little outburst had caused a scene. _Too bloody bad._

"I'm sorry, Clara. He doesn't understand- feelings and everything," John said, running to catch up with her.

She turned again, looking John directly in the eyes. "Oh yes he does. He just pretends he doesn't to make it easier on himself, so he can get away with whatever he wants to. If he really knows something important about the Doctor, he can make an appointment. I trust he's good enough to track me down."


	3. Chapter 3

Clara was awakened in her dim apartment by the sound of her phone beeping. She thought she had turned off the ringer, but obviously, she had been wrong. She groaned and rolled out of bed to retrieve the device, expecting yet another falsely sympathetic call. But it was a text from an unknown number. She opened it reluctantly.

_Setting up an appointment._

_ -SH_

It was three weeks since the funeral, and although Clara had done barely anything in that time, she had still managed to forget about the rude detective and his army friend.

_Maybe. Tell me what you know then we'll see._

She sent the text, and her phone lit up a few seconds later.

_Time/space traveler, face changes, travels with young British girls like you, presumed dead. -SH_

Clara's head reeled upon reading the last words. It wasn't possible. He came back whenever he died…didn't he? Was it possible that the Time Lords had only given him one regeneration? But no—the Doctor was sure he had another full cycle—12 regenerations—left. Maybe Sherlock wasn't familiar with the regeneration system. Yes, that had to be it. But she had to make sure.

_We should meet. Tomorrow 10am?_

Clara bit her lip. The response came almost immediately.

_Meet you at your favorite tea shop at 9:30. -SH_

She rolled her eyes, but sent back an _Ok._

She spent the next few hours in a kind of charged laziness; needing _something_ to do, but not having the energy to do it. There was some crying, a bit of sleep, and a lot of useless cycling thoughts. She rejected a few calls, picked at some of the donated casserole from the fridge, and half-watched some useless television. Just another day in the life of Clara Oswald, bereaved girlfriend. It sounded so pathetic- my _boyfriend_ died. Their relationship was not one of girls and boys, and her grief was not that of a girl either.

There they were again. The cycling thoughts. The thoughts that tried to make her feel better than everyone, more righteous in her depression. She had to stop this. So she texted Sherlock Holmes.

_ Can we make it tonight? Not necessarily tea. Need to get out of the house. _


	4. Chapter 4

The reply was instantaneous.

_Are you asking me out for dinner? –SH_

_If you're asking if I'm asking if we can meet over the evening meal to discuss important business, then yes, I suppose I am asking you out for dinner._

Clara sent the text so fast she barely registered what she'd written. It was as if her brain had snapped into a different mode…..a _flirting_ mode? No. She was being ridiculous. It was just a message to a man. A boy, really, at least in terms of flirting and other related aspects of adulthood.

_Meet you at the Italian restaurant 3 blocks from your flat in one hour. -SH_

She looked uncomfortably at Sherlock's text. She knew it wasn't that hard to track down a phone number, but now he knew where she lived, too, and had seemed to already have a record of the nearby venues. Nobody could research something that fast, unless he had a browser open with her address in it…..And now, thinking back on his earlier texts, she realized that Holmes also knew her favorite tea place. That was downright creepy. _Okay, Clara, now you're really overthinking it. You can find out how he knows in- in __one hour_, she thought. _Shit. One hour. _She hurriedly rushed around getting ready, even zooming through the shower and changing clothes, then raced to the front door only to discover that she had at least 15 minutes left before she had to leave.

Half an hour later, Clara pulled her bike up to the curb beside the restaurant. She spotted Sherlock inside before she herself entered—he sat alone, bolt upright, with his hands folded neatly, as though he'd arranged every single body part exactly how he wanted them. Clara felt a rush of unexplainable pity for the lonely detective-boy, but brushed it out of her mind as she walked into the busy café and sat down opposite him. "Hello," she said with a faint sigh.

"Hello," he answered, and the word sounded slow and unsure from his lips.

"So. You said….dead?" Clara asked awkwardly. The chatter of the room seemed to disappear as she waited for his answer.

"I said presumed," Sherlock said simply.

Clara sighed again. "Right. Can you explain?"

"You first. I need to know everything possible before I start, in the unlikely event I have something wrong."

She started to roll her eyes before remembering that Sherlock was definitely observing her closely, unlike most of the people she came across, and he would notice. He probably already had. He probably knew exactly what she was thinking. _Stop it, Clara. This isn't helping._ _Concentrate on reading _him, _not worrying about _him_ reading _you.

_Okay. Focus on him. Look him straight in the eye. You are confident and brave and __just__ as smart as him. Well, maybe not. Well, yes! As long as we're on the topic of the Doctor, I am the smart one who's in control. Oh, God, I really am a control freak, aren't I?_

"Neither of us are very good conversationalists, are we?" Sherlock said with dry sarcasm. She had forgotten, in her concentration, to actually say anything.

"I'm a perfectly good conversationalist when I'm with _other_ good conversationalists," she responded, stung and stinging.

"So you're one of those people who puts on a different mask for every different person you're with?"

"Isn't everybody?"

"Not me."

Clara laughed. "That is the most untrue thing I've ever heard."

"I doubt that," he muttered, but she continued.

"You always have a mask on. With John, you were all comfortable and friendly. You went to a _funeral _ with him, which really doesn't seem to be your sort of thing. But you went for him. As soon as John started talking to me, you appeared, maybe a little jealous?"

"I was n-"

"Yes you were. Maybe that's not quite the right word though- defensive? Protective?"

"I don't think-"

"And before I came in here, you were all, sort of….falling apart. Composed on the outside, down to the very last detail, but that's because…you didn't feel that way on the inside, did you? I mean, you still don't. But it's easier to put on masks for other people. You're only ever really _you_ alone." Clara surprised herself with the stream of insight- she hadn't really noticed that she noticed so much. To get back into comfortable ground, she angrily said, "And you're very close to your breaking point. So tell me what you know about the Doctor and I can get what I need to before you fall apart."

"Look at the pair of you," interjected a warm yet unfamiliar voice. "Happiest when you're arguing, eh? My son and his wife are the same way." Clara spun around to meet the eyes of one of the restaurant's waitresses, round wrinkled face grinning.

"We aren't together. It's just….business," she replied firmly.

"Awful emotional business if you ask me," the woman said with a wink. "But I won't pry. What can I get you?"


	5. Chapter 5

They ordered, and as soon as the waitress left, Sherlock said, "Sorry. I get that a lot."

''You get _what_ a lot?" Clara asked skeptically.

"People. Thinking. I- couple, that sort of thing. With John, usually."

She raised an eyebrow and coughed. "Anyways. Back to the Doctor."

"Yes. You were going to tell me first."

"Right. Well, you were right about the time/space travel thing. He's got a time machine disguised as one of those old blue police boxes, you know, the ones from the fifties-"

"Yes, I do know. The T-A-R-D-I-S, I believe?" Sherlock pronounced each of the letters separately, and Clara had to stifle a smile.

"TARDIS. One word. But yes. And, he's alien…there are loads of aliens, you really have to get used to them if you're talking about the Doctor," she glanced at Sherlock to see how he was taking it.

"Like the metal men and the Dalek things that have been popping up?" his expression was blank and composed, as usual.

"Exactly," she said. "How do you know all this?"

"Internet. There are conspiracy sites for everything, of course, but far more for this man than anything else. And more evidence as well. I brought some print-outs, if you want to see," he reached into his coat (it really was rather a glorious coat, all dark and long and swishy) and pulled out a few sheets of paper. Clara took them and glanced through the images. There were some from nearly all of his faces. There were also a few of the companions the TARDIS had shown Clara, mostly young women, of course—even now, Clara felt a bit jealous looking at them. Especially the leggy ginger one. And there, at the bottom of the stack, there were two of her- one of her next to the Doctor with his motorbike in front of the TARDIS- it was from their first real adventure together, and they'd accidentally made street performers of themselves. The next was a blurry shot of her and the _other_ Doctor beside his box in a sunny green forest. Clara remembered that moment well- had the photographer (one of the kids, probably), turned just a fraction to the left, Danny would have been there too. She traced the blank white paper to the side of the photo, wanting more badly than ever for him to be there.

"You've got rather a fan club, apparently," Sherlock said wryly, breaking the silence. "A forum all to yourself."

"Who are the _fans_?" Clara asked, a bit freaked out and a bit pleased.

"Geeky white males in their late teens and early twenties. Who else?"

She was now a bit more freaked out than pleased.


	6. Chapter 6

"So…this _dead_ thing?"

"Ah, yes….I've got a printout of that as well," he reached into the coat again, withdrawing a yellow file folder and glancing at her.

Clara met his gaze with an anxious catch in her breath. She opened the folder and closed her eyes for a minute before looking down. The first page within the folder was a screenshot of one of the 'conspiracy' sites Sherlock had mentioned. A user under the name 'bluebox40' had posted the following:

THE DOCTOR IS MISSING. A police box showed up next door to me yesterday- thought it must be fake, checked inside- I FOUND THE TARDIS. Not an ordinary box. No doctor. Waited. Still none. And box unlocked. Address= 241 St George St if you want to see- I swear I'm not lying! Not sure what to do. Pretty sure I'm not crazy.

The entry was accompanied by a few cell phone photos of- sure enough- the TARDIS' interior. Many replies were below:

-shes telling the truth i went and saw forcefield inside wouldnt let anyone thru door maybe hes still there

-They're right- it's been 3 days since original post. I live a block away and it's still there.

-UPDATE: Box is GONE. Military-looking people (UNIT?) came and took it with a huge crane. ANY Doctor sightings? There's been no sign of him in a week and the TARDIS abandoned=must be bad.

-Guys- I heard a theory about how the Tardis moves away from danger when Doctor isn't inside. Maybe that happened? Been trying to get in contact with Unit and Torchwood since I saw this thread.

"Sherlock, this is scary, yeah, but how does it mean he's dead?" Clara asked. She was seriously impressed with how devoted (how stalkerish) these people were about the Doctor.

"Next page. It's an official UNIT report."

Clara cast the sheet of paper aside and speed-read the next one. By the time she reached the end she was pale and shaking. Sherlock coughed uncomfortably.

"So. The last time he was- the café, with me….he told me he was going home. He said…he said, Gallifrey. And he hasn't been back since. That was….over a month ago," she summarized.

"Yes. But, as you can see, he couldn't have been going home."

"I know. I read the report. They used alien tech to trace the coordinates and there was nothing. Lots of nothing. A black hole."

"Yes. And nothing seen of him since. Except this box, turning up on Miss Janet Heatherfield's doorstep, empty and alone."

"The other person online was right. It does travel away from danger if the Doctor isn't inside and he doesn't have control. That got us in a lot of trouble once," Clara laughed sadly, and realised there were tears pricking at her eyes.

"You know what this might mean, don't you? You've clearly made the connection. But just…look at the next page to be sure," he said.

"How did you get this UNIT report?" she asked. She wanted to put off looking at it, because this whole thing was so ridiculous. The Doctor wasn't dead. He hadn't…._jumped into a black hole_ or whatever Sherlock was suggesting. And if he had, she was not-_not-_ the last person to talk to him. She wasn't sure she could live with that twice over.

"Fairly easy to hack into the email account, even if the report itself was only sent to the top executives and officers. The 'President of the World's' disappearance isn't something they want publicized."

"Stop acting like- like…he's not important. Like he's just another guy, and his maybe death doesn't matter- and-" she spit out, the tears coming against her will. "He's saved your life- all our lives- so many hundreds of times and you don't give him any respect."

Sherlock looked stunned as she stood up, angrily wrenching the folder from the table. "I- what- Clara? I'm telling you, aren't I? Nobody else had- and- I thought-"

She yanked on her coat and stormed out of the restaurant into the rain which had just begun pounding onto the streets. Sherlock sat alone at the table. _You know she was just upset, and she's taking that out on you with anger, _he thought. _It was obvious from the crying, and the suddenness of it all. And she had to be grateful for you telling her, didn't she? She had no reason to be upset with you._

The elderly waitress arrived again bearing a tray with their food. She turned to see Clara disappearing into the grey, rainy street. "Oh, dear. I'm sorry, love. She did care about you, that much was clear…but not everyone can work things out, hmmm? Here, take her food as well. You can have it on the house."


	7. Chapter 7

_What is wrong with me? I am such a freak. I can't even face a simple truth, I have to blame somebody else and ruin any hope of friendship with the one person who actually thought to do something meaningful for me, _Clara thought as she walked away from the café, bike rolling beside her; she had no desire to ride it in the rain. _I am a mess. I'm…_

_Depressed._

The word hit her suddenly, and she wondered why she hadn't thought of it earlier. She knew now it was true, but it made her…uncomfortable, somehow. It wasn't as if she was prejudiced against depressed people, but it had never been something that applied to her. She suddenly brought to mind a checklist to see if you were depressed, a list given years ago to all of the teens at her secondary school. _Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness. _Check. _Loss of interest in daily activities. _Check. _Appetite or weight changes. _Check. _Anger or irritability. _Could she double or triple check that one? _Self loathing. _Another triple check.

Clara wondered how long that list had been stored in her unconscious memory, and how long she'd been depressed…it couldn't have been before Danny's death, could it? She could ask the Doctor- he was the only person aside from who really had seen her during the past few months. _The Doctor. _But he was gone, wasn't he? There was still the last page in the folder, taunting her with its secrets. She would open it when she got home. She would read it, and then she would call Sherlock, and she would apologize for being an insufferable maniac.

But when Clara entered her apartment, she immediately lay down on the couch and had a staring contest with the folder. Her eyes drifted shut as she fell asleep, and she lost the contest, empty promises filling her mind. _I'll read it tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll grow up and deal with everything. Tomorrow I'll stop being depressed._


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning, Sherlock stepped out of a cab and stood in front of Clara Oswald's apartment building, feeling unexplainably nervous. _You need her help- she's the only person who actually knows anything worthwhile about the Doctor. Unless you tried contacting that Doctor Martha Smith and her husband, there were pictures of both of them on the websites…Stop making excuses, Sherlock!_

As he paced back and forth, hand rising to the doorbell and falling uselessly to his side again, Sherlock's own long-ago words echoed mockingly in his head. _Oscillation_ _upon the_ _pavement_ _always_ _means_ _an affaire de coeur_. But he replaced that thought with a fact- a fact established by far too many people on countless occasions. _Sherlock Holmes had no heart._ He purposefully raised his arm once more and pushed the 'call' button for Clara's apartment.

After about a minute, she responded. "Who's there?" Her croaky lack-of-sleep voice was made even more ragged with the crackle of the machine.

"It's me, Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." _Curses. How stupid was he? It wasn't as if she knew other Sherlocks._ "I wanted to apolo-"

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I was going to call you last night, and then I was going to call you this morning and I just woke up and…I'm sorry."

Sherlock was caught off guard. She really was extremely unpredictable. "Er, right then. It's fine. Have you, uh, read the file?"

"No," she sighed, then added with a teasing tone, "Look, you can come up and glare at me until I do."

"Right," he said. She was lying to him. Well, not outright lying. She had a mask on. She was pretending to be happy and alright and funny, and she was not very good at it. But the door buzzed, so Sherlock walked through the door and up to Clara's apartment.

When he reached the top of the narrow flight of stairs, Clara yanked open her door and let him through. She had a bedhead and was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Her coat was lying on the floor in the main area, and the yellow envelope was sitting on her kitchen table. It was obvious she had fallen asleep on the couch immediately after returning from the café and only just woken up. "Hi," she said sheepishly, and he could tell that she knew about (and was feeling awkward about) his deducting. He tried to put on observation blinders, but it didn't work. The flat itself screamed 1970s, but Clara had made it an almost oxymoronic pleasant 1970s. The décor was mostly orange, brown, and red, giving the place a homey feel. There were dishes cluttering the kitchen and books and other miscellanea tossed around the floor. He quickly deducted that she hadn't been at work since the funeral, hadn't gone grocery shopping in a few weeks, but didn't really notice since she wasn't eating much. There were only two probable explanations, considering she didn't seem to be physically ill and the apartment had seen better days: pregnant and depressed, and Sherlock knew which.


	9. Chapter 9

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry guys but I won't be resolving the last cliffhanger just yet, since I'm switching back to Clara's perspective for most of it. I really love reading all your reviews!**

Clara gestured Sherlock towards the couch and sat down next to him with one leg pulled under her and the folder on her lap. "Sorry I haven't been able to clean…or change since yesterday. I really ought to, but…"

"I don't mind. I once wore nothing but a sheet to Buckingham Palace."

Clara gave a short, shocked little laugh of disbelief. "I have no idea when to believe you or not."

"I haven't lied to you once," he said.

She paused a moment, considering his eyes- quiet and restful for once. She knew he was telling the truth, but- "That doesn't mean you never will," she whispered.

He was back to brusque and mechanical. "I can't promise anything. Nobody can."

"I suppose that's true. Here goes," Clara hesitated and glanced up again, maybe hoping for some sort of reassurance. She didn't get it. As if that was unexpected. She opened the folder to read the last page.

_To all whom it may concern,_

_I am writing to inform you of the Doctor's death. He was killed in battle with the Daleks far away, a long time in the future. I can confirm that the death took place in his twelfth form, and he was 'Exterminated' again before the regeneration process could complete. It is my belief that the Doctor chose death in this case. He entered a known military command planet of his sworn enemies with no plan or supplies. To those who knew the Doctor, this may seem completely commonplace, but there is one key difference. The Doctor was alone. I regret to be the bearer of this news. Today, the universe has lost its protector, and its oldest friend._

_Sincerely, C. Oswald._

Clara's head snapped up as she reached the end of the letter. "_C. Oswald?_"

"Yes," Sherlock said, leveling that cool stare at her.

"But- I- what?"

"Yes," he repeated.

"Okay," she took a deep breath. "Okay. It must be one of the echoes. That's the only explanation. They're everywhere, so I guess…must be."

"Care to tell me what you're talking about?"

"Right. Let me explain."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Sorry for the wait, I've been really busy. But here's the next chapter, and I promise more is on the way!**

"…and now there are a lot of doubles of me scattered around the universe, wherever the Doctor has been. Or it could be me, from the future…." Clara finished. Sherlock, as usual, seemed unfazed by the discussion of aliens and time-streams.

"Either seems plausible. But how do we find out? That is, assuming you want to find out."

"Of course I do. I suppose the first thing- the _only_ thing I can do, really, is get in touch with UNIT."

"My brother works for the government. I can arrange a meeting through him, or-"

"No, it's alright. I'll call. I'm pretty sure the President of the Universe's death has more priority than your brother, whoever he is."

"He," Sherlock adopted a haughty tone, "_is_ the government."

"Sure," Clara rolled her eyes.

"Remember the Buckingham Palace story?"

"How could I forget? That was five minutes ago, and I'm pretty sure I'll have that image in my mind for the next five _years_."

"Yes. Well, we were there partly due to my prowess as a detective, and partly to his status."

"That's really lovely for the pair of you, but I'm going to do this on my own. I have connections too."

"On your own," Sherlock repeated. "Meaning…I should go."

"No, sorry," Clara sighed. "I came off as harsh there, sorry. I want your help. But I don't want your bragging."

He cleared his throat. "Seems fair, but only if I get something in return."

"What?"

"You don't do any of the process behind my back- not even sending emails. And I'd really prefer to set up HQ at my flat."

"Um…alright," Clara said, "I didn't know mine was _that_ bad."

"It's not. It'll just be useful…interesting to test government efficiency…"

She looked at him quizzically, but Sherlock didn't elaborate, and she didn't push him.

"Should I get started? Look up UNIT's contact information, send an email or call them or whatev-"

"Didn't we just agree we'd do it at my place?" he cut across.

"Er, yeah, I guess we did. Does that mean you're leaving now?"

"I- I think so," Sherlock replied, standing up awkwardly. Clara cursed on the inside. _Why did every conversation they had need to end in a train wreck?_

"When should I come over to get started?" she asked, in a desperate, last-minute attempt to restore peace.

"This afternoon. 4pm. Start looking for a new job first."

"I have a job," she said, nonplussed.

"You're honestly still fooling yourself that you'll go back there, Clara?"

"It- it pays well, as far as teaching goes."

"Stop fighting back. It's time you accepted it. You were miserable there, anyways. Danny was the only reason you stayed so long and look where that got the both of you."

She felt as if she had been slapped. "You can go now, Sherlock. Thanks for the tip. Maybe I'll see you at 4, maybe not." Clara stood and walked to the door, opening it and then closing it behind him. She leaned against the doorframe as soon as he was gone. Talk about train wrecks.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Sorry again for the wait, I've been busy with final exams, and allowing myself the guilty pleasure of 'writing ahead' to what I wanted to write ****but here it is!**

_Idiot, idiot, idiot, _Clara repeated to herself over and over. She wasn't sure which of them she was talking about. _Idiot. _Both probably. _Idiot._

She slumped down on the sofa again, any hopes of a good mood giving their death rattle beneath the passing wheels of a ruined friendship. Good god, she really was being rather morbid, wasn't she?

Clara groaned and flopped over onto her side, hugging a throw pillow. In just one sentence, Sherlock had made her question her entire career. It was true—she _had _been miserable at Coal Hill; the kids teased her and the other teachers looked down on her, especially given her relationship with Danny. And she didn't really have any plans of returning, it had just sort of been at the back of her mind for the past month or so, getting further back with every passing day. She reluctantly pulled her laptop over to her and searched for primary school teaching positions in London. But before she sent in any applications or made enquiries, there was one thing she had to do.

Four hours later, Clara sat in the small, familiar office with a firm set chin. "Mr. Hartwell, I'm sorry but…I have to leave my position," she announced.

Her now ex-boss looked back at her with a sad, knowing little smile. "Perfectly understandable, Miss Oswald. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, but it's always a shame to let a good teacher go."

Had she really been a good teacher, or was he just saying that? "Thank you, sir. It's a wonderful place, but…you know. Given the circumstances…"

"Of course. Thank you, Clara. And thank you for coming in, in person. Most people would have just called or emailed. You've got a good old-fashioned sense of dignity," Hartwell said.

She paused. "Right. I- I figured I owed it to you. I suppose…I'll go now."

"Do you need anything from your classroom?"

"No thank you. It'll be good to start fresh," she smiled at him as she turned and walked out of the little school for the last time, feeling a mix of sadness, regret, and relief.

It was just before half past three when Clara returned home to her apartment. A part of her said not to bother, that she'd already made enough of an effort, what with letting him in here and reading the envelope and on top of that, _quitting her job_ because of him….but another part knew that she had to, to preserve that 'sense of dignity' Principal Hartwell had described. That part won. It always did, in the end.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: I thought I owed you guys a lighter and longer chapter, so here it is! **

A quick Google search and half an hour later saw Clara standing on the pavement outside 221B Baker Street, determined not to let anything go wrong this time. She knocked smartly, knowing (and sort of hoping) that Sherlock would be able to notice her confident cheeriness from the sound. The door was opened a few seconds later, not by Sherlock, but by an older woman in a floral dress.

"Sherlock's upstairs, dear," she said.

"Erm, thanks," Clara said. "How did you know I was…?"

"Oh, I always know. I'm Mrs. Hudson, by the way. His landlady. Go on up."

"Thanks," Clara said again, and proceeded up the narrow stair. Before she reached the top, she heard yelling and banging. Clara stuck her head back down. "Mrs. Hudson? Sorry, but…do you know if everything's alright up there?"

"Oh, yes dear, don't worry, just go in. I've learned to ignore even the gunshots."

"Right," she replied. Gunshots?

Clara walked back to the top of the stairs, where the door was already slightly ajar. She knocked, but the sound was drowned in another match of shouting. "And then he's gone, just like that and me wife's gone with 'im and there ain't no way I can find 'em and so I's come to you lot an' you 'aven't done nothin' neither!" said a voice, a decidedly un-Sherlockian voice. She gently pushed the door open enough to see what was going on.

Sherlock sat, poised and polished as usual, hands clasped at his lap as a large, red-faced man stomped back and forth yelling. A smallish woman sat behind Sherlock, taking notes, brown eyes tired but bright. Clara squeezed herself inside and around the corner, meeting Sherlock's gaze for a second. His eyes acknowledged her presence in that instant, but the rest of him was utterly focused on the shouting man. Clara looked around and took a seat on one of the small chairs in the room she now realized was the kitchen, and continued to regard the proceedings with curiosity.

"Please calm down sir. Can you explain to me why you came directly here and not to the police?" Sherlock asked the man.

"I did bleedin' go to the police an' they told me she was fine an' all!" he replied, not calming down one bit. "But I know it ain't right. None of it is."

"Molly, please go get Mr. Wallace a glass of water. And one for Clara too, while you're at it," said Sherlock, and the woman seated behind him moved over to the kitchen.

"Hi," the woman, Molly, whispered, smiling cautiously. "You're Clara Oswald?"

"Yeah," Clara said, standing up and shaking Molly's hand. "And you're Molly, obviously."

"Yes, I'm just helping Sherlock out with this case. He likes to bring me for some of them to keep us occupied. He's been talking loads about you and this Doctor fellow."

"Really?" Clara asked, not sure whether to be pleased, defensive, or confused. She settled on an uncomfortable mix of the three. It seemed as if this Molly had known about the Doctor's death and the surrounding mystery for longer than Clara herself had. A particularly loud scream of rage from 'Mr. Wallace' made both women jump. "So…what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a pathologist. I work in a morgue," Molly grimaced as she poured two glasses of water. "Dead people stuff."

"Oh, right. Cool," Clara said. It only made sense that Sherlock had a circle of friends just as odd and intriguing as him.

"And you?"

"I'm…unemployed. As of an hour ago. At Sherlock's suggestion," Clara sighed, realizing how utterly ridiculous it sounded.

"Oh," Molly said. "Yes, he does have that sort of power over people. It might seem insane now, but keep in mind that he was probably right in the end."

Clara was surprised and a little touched at how quickly the other woman had read her, and how she knew exactly what to say. It seemed Sherlock and his friends were all highly observant geniuses as well as odd and intriguing.

"Thanks. Look- should I just go?" Clara asked. She was feeling increasingly small and out of place. "Sherlock told me to come by at four, and Mrs. Hudson said to just go up, but it doesn't look like he'll be done any time soon, does it?"

"No, don't go," Molly said, turning to face Clara. "He's always busy with something or other. And this one's probably just a distraction; it's not interesting to him at all."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. I promise we'll be finished in five minutes."

Clara sat down again with her glass of water as Molly returned to her own place behind Sherlock, and began to watch the events unfolding in front of her.


End file.
